


Blood Magic

by CaptainReina



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders Needs a Hug, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, anders is just really depressed, justice neutral
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-05-09 12:30:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14716079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainReina/pseuds/CaptainReina
Summary: Anders nearly killed a girl. Anders starts acting suspicious. Fenris suspects blood magic. Fenris is wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

"Anders, that girl is a mage, we saved her from becoming Tranquil!"

_"She is theirs! I can feel their hold on her!"_

"She's the reason you're fighting, Anders. Don't turn on her now."

"Please, messere . . . "

.

"We're just a monster. Same as any other abomination."

.-.-.-.-.

Anders had been quiet.

Not that Fenris exactly minded at first. The apostate was absolutely insufferable, making Fenris want to punch him every time he opened his damned mouth and spewed some pro-mage propaganda - and of course he couldn't help himself when the man was always baiting him, always luring him into snapping and getting into long arguments. Hawke always found it amusing, if a little ridiculous, when they went on like that. They all ended the same; one or both would simply give up, tired of the circles, and refuse to even acknowledge the other existed for several hours.

It was childish. Fenris hated it. It was  _stupid._ And yet, standing here in slightly-too-warm Kirkwall in a fancy building with a disheartening lack of cool air, waiting for Hawke to finish inside the Viscount's office after at least an hour of talking and blatantly ignoring Merrill's cheerful humming and idle babbling to herself, Fenris found he would have welcomed the banter, no matter how angry it usually made him. Anything but this horribly awkward quiet, guards staring as they passed, Merrill occasionally stopping a guard to ask the time until Fenris had memorized the dialogue by heart.

 _Excuse me, serah! What time is it?_  Insert time here.  _Thank you! Have a lovely afternoon!_ Every. Time. Normal, right? Yet mind-numbing when he heard it every half hour, nearly on the dot.

He hated Anders, but he hated this atmosphere so much more.

The mage in question was shifting from foot to foot, getting understandably antsy after they had been waiting so long, but Fenris leapt on the opportunity like a parched man that had come across an oasis. "Worried the guards will recognize you and call the templars, mage?"

I have a name! Mind your own business! I'd like to see them try! Any of those heated retorts would have worked. Maker,  _anything,_  or Fenris was going to lose his damn mind. But Anders only glanced his way, eyes narrowing with mild contempt, before his gaze slid back over to the window.

"I suppose they might," he said simply, and Fenris nearly forgot not to stare in astonishment.

What the hell was that? Where was the anger? Where was the attitude? Where was Justice's rage, tearing him a new asshole? What had happened to the Anders he knew, who would take any bait at the drop of a hat? Who would spend hours fussing and whining to anyone who would listen and fight Fenris for an eternity over their opposing views?

"Until next time, Marlowe!"

Hawke's chipper voice, the way she showed such thinly veiled casual disrespect, the distasteful murmurs that followed - all beautifully welcoming sounds to Fenris' ears. Hawke came into view from Viscount Dumar's office, whistling an upbeat tune and heading for the stairs, and the rest of the party needed no verbal cue to follow her down. They hit up Aveline in her quarters, Hawke having much too long a discussion with her as well, before they finally left.

On second thought, Fenris would have been honored to continue standing outside the Viscount's office for another several hours. Or several days. Or really, the rest of the summer, because summer in Kirkwall was  _miserable._ The bad weather had caught on quickly and sporadically, fooling Fenris every few days with a disorientingly lovely forecast, and then coming back the next with heat that made him sweat like he never had before. The stone of Hightown absorbed heat and radiated it like some kind of giant oven.

"Goodness," Merrill panted next to him. "It was so deceptively cloudy this morning! I wish I had put on my sleeveless tunic. I'm absolutely melting!" A pause. "Oh, what a horrid thought. I don't imagine people melting is much of a pleasant sight."

"It never got this hot in Ferelden," Hawke grumbled. "Maker, I'm sweating buckets!"

Fenris expected Anders to say something as well, at least adding to Hawke's complaint as he was also from Ferelden, but the mage remained silent.

They made their way down the stairs and through the streets of Hightown. Merchants were notably less boisterous in the heat, and the market had gone from a buzzing hive of activity to a desolate wasteland. Hawke stopped by a few stalls before they headed towards Lowtown. Merrill and Hawke chattered brightly, and Fenris was coaxed out of his staring at Anders to tune into their conversation.

"I just don't know how you do it. They dry up my savings faster than I can say  _aneth ara!"_

"You've got to be mean, Merrill! Take what you want and don't take no for an answer."

"Be mean? Oh, Hawke, they're just trying to live."

"And they need every coin in your pocket to survive?"

Merrill sighed wistfully. "You're right. I'm hopeless."

"Maybe not," Hawke said, and stopped so suddenly that Fenris nearly ran into her. Anders, of course, proceeded to run into him, and he offered the apostate a harsh scowl. Anders only responded with a glare. Hawke was quick to interrupt them before things went downhill. "Fenris!"

Surprised at being addressed, Fenris only dumbly responded, "Yes, Hawke?"

Hawke placed one hand on her hip and poked at Fenris' chest plate with the other, a devious smile crossing her face. "You're going to accompany Merrill to the market tomorrow."

 _Thanks for asking,_ Fenris wanted to say, but he bit back the irritated retort. He liked Hawke, however they may disagree, despite how much he did  _not_ want to spend any time with that filthy blood mage. Especially not alone. "Pardon?"

"Oh, no! You don't have to!" Merrill scrambled, and Fenris was, for once, welcoming of her opinion. "It's so silly of me. I'll be quite alright, both of you."

"Nonsense!" Hawke declared, straightening up and crossing her arms. "Merrill here is terrible at bartering. You're going to help her."

"I am not the best at bartering, myself," Fenris said honestly, a little baffled. Why did he have to do it? Why not Varric? Isabela? Hawke herself? Come to think of it, weren't rogues the best at that sort of thing? Convenience, probably, he answered himself; Hawke didn't feel like tracking them down, and had her own things to attest to, and turned to Fenris as he was right there. Then again, so was Anders, so why . . . ?

Hawke waved her hand dismissively. "I know you're no haggler," she said, "but you know what you are good at? Looking scary." Fenris stared at her. Hawke clapped her hands in delight. "Good! Just like that!"

Fenris had to say it - this was not clearing things up at all. "I fail to see how that's relevant," he replied slowly. Hawke rolled her eyes.

"Can I make it any more obvious? You're going to go with Merrill here - " At this she threw an arm around the Dalish elf's shoulders, " - to the market, and she's going to try for some sweet bargains. And if anyone tells her no, you're going to mean mug them until they say yes, or piss their pants. Whichever comes first. With you staring them down, it's sort of a gamble."

"That sounds mean," Merrill piped up, sounding guilty. Hawke waggled a finger in her face.

"What's mean is their price gouging!"

He supposed there was no helping it. Fenris would have to comply, or Hawke would talk them in circles until he inevitably said yes. She had a funny way of doing that, of convincing anyone to do just about anything, whether it was the lowest street urchin, the highest ranking noble, or Varric, the master of manipulation himself. Usually, Fenris admired it, and on occasion even found it amusing. Today, he loathed it.

"I will do it," he relented, and as Hawke looked on smugly and Merrill thanked him profusely, he mentally prepared himself for something horribly wrong to happen the next day. Traveling alone with a blood mage? Nothing good could come of it.

"Good luck with that one," Anders muttered, a startling lack of any real emotion behind it. Fenris whipped his head around, wanting to give some snarky response, but he was too surprised at him finally opening his mouth to come up with anything clever.

"So nice of you to finally join us, Anders," Hawke said cheerfully, but he only shrugged in response.

They made their way into Darktown, and despite all the filth about, Fenris relished in how much cooler the air was.

.-.-.-.-.

It was hot once more in Kirkwall. The stones burned Fenris' feet, perhaps not as badly as a human's, but still remarkably considering the resistance he had built up. If it got much worse, he might have to start wearing his boots. He hated wearing his boots. Thankfully, it was not nearly as hot as Tevinter got sometimes, so he did not think he would have to wear them anytime soon.

He made his way out of his little corner of Hightown, down to the market, and into Lowtown. The small market there was a tad livelier than the one in Hightown, as it was a little cooler here, the location providing more shade and cooling the stones. A few residents gave brief, polite greetings as they went on their way, and he always responded with a silent nod, unsure what to say. That place might have been considered the slums, but the residents were far friendlier than any of the higher class citizens.

The Alienage was not far, and greetings rang out from all over, friendly faces recognizing him as one of Merrill's friends. Fenris did not have the heart to tell them he wanted nothing to do with her. He made his way to her home.

When knocking heralded nothing, he hesitantly opened the door and allowed himself inside. The place was small, a dirty little hovel, but Merrill was doing her best to make it seem lively. Despite the squeaking of mice in the background, he could admire her other efforts - the paintings she had purchased to place on the walls, the nicer furniture she had finally invested in, the small bookcase in the corner. Some part of it elicited an odd sort of embarrassment in Fenris; maybe it was time for him to renovate, too.

Voices from the bedroom had Fenris tensing. Had he walked in on something private? He moved back to the door, trying to exit as quietly as possible so nobody would know his shame, but his ears caught the words and he froze in place.

"I'm so excited!" Merrill was saying. "Let's see . . . no, no good. Here, how about this one? It's very sharp. You can hardly feel it!"

"It's familiar," came Anders' voice. Anders?

"Oh, yes, it would be, it's my favorite. I use it all the time!"

"If it's your favorite, I couldn't . . . "

"Don't be ridiculous," Merrill told him, and there was the sound of a blade being removed from a sheath.

"Sharper than Hawke's tongue," Anders said. Merrill burst into a sweet little chortle. "Are you sure about giving this one to me? Any will do."

"It's nothing! I can always get another. I'm just so excited you're finally seeing things my way!"

Knives. Fenris' hands closed into fists, the tips of his clawed gauntlets digging into his palms. It was plain as day what they were talking about. He should have known! Of all the preaching Anders did, despite all the times he scolded Merrill and implored to Fenris, all the times he preached against blood magic, here he was, borrowing knives from the blood mage herself. For what? Cutting cheese? No, Fenris knew exactly what this was about.

He had to tell Hawke.

Just as he was reaching for the door handle, Anders and Merrill came out of the room. They all stopped and stared at one another, tension crackling in the air. A small, sheathed knife with an ornate handle was tucked into his belt, and Fenris' eyes narrowed dangerously at the sight. Anders himself looked like a deer in headlights, scratching at the back of his neck self consciously and avoiding eye contact.

"Fenris!" Merrill finally spoke up, her voice chipper as ever, though she fidgeted as she spoke. "How long have you been here? I didn't mean to keep you waiting, I'm so sorry!"

Fenris swallowed thickly. This could be dangerous territory. He had seen what Merrill could do in the field. If there were two of them . . .

"I just arrived," he said, moving away from the door. "It is no trouble." Anders seemed to immediately relax, walking towards the exit.

"I was just leaving," Anders said, raising a hand in farewell. As he opened through the door, he addressed the other mage in the house. "Thanks for everything, Merrill. I appreciate it."

"No problem! Tell me how it - " The door swung shut behind him, and Merrill faltered, looking disappointed. " - goes."

They stood there in silence, neither talking, staring, calculating. If anything, this extended exchange confirmed what they both knew: that Fenris had been standing there quite a while, and that he knew Merrill and Anders were doing more than simply catching up. Finally, Merrill shook her head, grabbed her staff from her room, and slung it over her back, then grabbed a bag of coins off the table. She smiled innocently at Fenris.

"Shall we be off? I've got a lot of learning to do today!" She was chipper, eyes gone from inquisitive and suspicious to bright and cheerful once more.

It was then that Fenris noticed the lack of chainmail and scarf, and he took in the short sleeved tunic and light leggings she had swapped it for, as well as the black little sandals she swapped to. He was vaguely jealous. He should have thought to dress lighter in this heat, though he did not really own much. He was going to suffer horribly during their little adventure.

There were more pressing matters. When Merrill placed her hand on the door knob, Fenris darted forward and grasped her wrist, effectively stopping her from moving. A startled little gasp left her lips as Fenris hovered over her, intimidatingly close, his markings faintly glowing a light blue.

"What were you two doing?"

Merrill's eyes went impossibly wide, a little terrified, and then narrowed. In an astonishingly brave display for the usually shy little elf, she jerked her hand away and opened the door, then placing her hands on her hips and glaring down Fenris. It was the first time he had seen her anything akin to mad and he was more shocked than angry that she resisted him.

"It's none of your business, Fenris," she said flatly, scolding him like a mother would a nosy child. "And quite frankly, it's not mine, either, so I'm not going to gossip behind his back."

"Mage - "

"We have shopping to do!" And suddenly she was back to her merry self, taking hold of Fenris' hand and dragging him out the door with surprising strength. "Come on, messere Grumpy Pants. You've got merchants to scowl at."

The threat had passed. He would have to tell Hawke later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone it's been a really busy and hard time lately so sorry for the delay

It was dark in Hightown when Fenris ventured out from his mansion, his broadsword a heavy but comforting weight on his back. The roads should have been safe, considering Hawke had recently cleared out the bandits that prowled the streets at night. Still, where one group of thugs fell, another would rise, and Fenris was not going to be taken by surprise.

Lanterns dimly lit the path to Hawke's estate, not too far from his own home. The night was pleasantly quiet and surprisingly cool compared to the daytime. It was still far too warm for his tastes, but his feet were thankful of the lower temperature.

Fenris passed the long staircase to the chantry and stopped in front of Hawke's door, knocking firmly with his fist rather than the knocker, and stepped back to wait. Bodahn was quick to answer. He looked rather tired, and for a second Fenris felt guilty for coming at such an hour. He pushed it away in a heartbeat; this was important.

"Ah, good evening, serah," the dwarf greeted, allowing Fenris in and directing him to an armchair in the front room. "Messere Hawke was just getting ready for bed for the night. Shall I call her down?"

Fenris opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a voice from the top of the stairs. "He can join me in my study, Bodahn."

There she was, leaning on the railing with wet hair and a fluffy gray bathrobe. Bodahn gave a hasty little bow and a quick "of course, messere" before pushing Fenris toward the stairs. The elf made his way up to where Hawke stood and offered her a nod in greeting. She rolled her eyes and shoved at his shoulder playfully.

"Is that all you greet a lady with?" Hawke scolded, though without any real venom. She glanced back down at her dwarven servant. "Some wine, please, Bodahn. Surprise me. You can call it a night after that."

"Yes, messere," Bodahn replied with another bow, and wandered out of sight. Hawke turned her attention back to Fenris. He reached out and tugged at the sleeve of her robe, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Is this what you buy with all that money?" he asked, only a hint of irony in his tone. She snatched her arm away and swatted lightly at his wrist, matching his smile with a grin.

"I've run out of luxuries to splurge on," Hawke said airily. The two of them wandered past the small library to her study. "When you're busy dealing with everyone and their mother's problems, you end up with more money than you know what to do with. You should know that."

"I buy only the necessities," Fenris replied. He watched Hawke plop down into her desk chair with a sigh and cross her legs. She shot him a look that was partly amused, a little irritated.

"Fixing that run-down hovel of yours isn't a necessity?" she probed, and he crossed his arms.

"It is a roof over my head," he said somewhat defensively, leaning against the wall opposite her.

Hawke narrowed her eyes. It was an argument they had often; she regularly insisted that he should invest in fixing up his mansion, while Fenris argued that it was best to save for more important instances. Before they could get into it again, however, Bodahn arrived with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Hawke let out a weary sigh and thanked him, uncorking the bottle and pouring a glass for her guest.

"9:12," she read from the bottle before handing the glass over. "Should be good."

"Thank you," was all he said.

They both went quiet, Hawke pouring her own glass and swirling the contents. Fenris took a sip, and then another, downing his glass rather quickly. He supposed there should be some shame at his alcoholism but could not really bring himself to care. Instead, he helped himself to another glass, and Hawke chugged half of hers before speaking again.

"I think I'm drunk enough to deal with you now," she joked, looking up at Fenris over the rim of her glass. "What did you come here for, Fenris? Surely not just for regular middle-of-the-night gossip."

There was a drop in atmosphere at her question. Fenris took a particularly large gulp of wine, taking his time before answering. When he spoke it was with the slow hesitation of a man carefully choosing his words, and Hawke listened closely, attentively, in a way few others cared to for an elf.

"Anders was visiting Merrill," Fenris said quietly. Hawke's eyes narrowed, and she took another sip before responding.

"He has been acting strange lately, hasn't he?"

Fenris had no real response to that one. He always thought the mage acted strangely. "They were discussing blades. Merrill gifted him one. She refused to tell me what they were for."

Hawke stared at her wine in contemplation before sighing and drinking the rest. "That is rather self-explanatory, isn't it? Though . . . "

Fenris did not like the way she said that. "Though?" he repeated slowly.

"Don't you think we would have noticed something by now?" Hawke helped herself to more wine. "Stories of demons running amok in Darktown? Weird fleshy growth all over our favorite mage's body? I don't know, Fenris. Maybe it's nothing."

He could not believe his ears. Nothing?  _Nothing?_

"An abomination and a blood mage," he ground out, "and you think it's nothing?"

"I'll keep an eye on him," Hawke said before Fenris could get angry, waving her hand at him dismissively. "Don't expect anything big, though. I'm not so certain it's important."

Fenris scoffed, setting a half-finished goblet of wine on the desk and turning his back on Hawke. "I'll see myself out."

"Fenris," Hawke said sharply when he was halfway out of the room. He turned to look at her, and ice blue eyes met his own, narrowing in something like a warning.

"What?" he snapped, a little harsher than was warranted. Hawke didn't break eye contact.

"Don't do anything stupid."

.-.-.-.-.

Sweat rolled down the back of Fenris' neck, which he was sure he would later find sunburnt from the scorching rays the sun beat upon their merry band. The sun scalded their backs as Hawke led her companions along the Wounded Coast. Fenris had not only ditched his armor, but abandoned his leather feathers and wore his gauntlets on their own, as well as traded his undershirt for a sleeveless one. Merrill was clad in a sleeveless tunic and had gone without pretty much all of her armor, Hawke in a similar situation.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

And then there was Anders. Despite the sweltering heat, he had done naught but removed his bulky coat, leaving his noticeably thin frame wrapped in a thick, long-sleeved gown. Merrill was pestering him, leaning close with her eyes sparkling excitedly.

"Is everything going okay?"

"Oh . . . that. It's going fine. Thank you, Merrill."

"It's no problem! I'm excited to see!"

"I think I won't show it off just yet."

He seemed noticeably exhausted, face long and bags under his eyes deep. Fenris could see the suspicion on Hawke's face at his choice of clothing - though she could not hear the whispers like Fenris could - and it left him feeling strangely victorious. Merrill walked beside Fenris now, avoiding eye contact, knowing he could hear.

"Bit hot out here, isn't it, Anders?" she piped up into the muted silence that had fallen over the party. An arm went around the mage's shoulders, and Fenris was surprised to see him flinch a little. Evidence of his betrayal, he supposed.

"Sweltering," Anders responded, tone controlled. Hawke made a sympathetic noise, and leaned in close to murmur in Anders' ear. She wasn't that good at whispering; Fenris' (or Merrill's, if she was interested) ears were more than sensitive enough to pick up her words.

"Little warm for wool, hm? Bet you can't wait to get out of that."

Anders made a face, and Fenris nearly groaned at Hawke's bad flirting. Could it even be called that?

"The sooner we get the job done, the sooner I can do exactly that," Anders replied, now looking uncomfortable. Hawke let out a little huff of air before trying again.

"You should do it in my bedroom," Hawke said bluntly.

Merrill let out a surprised little  _oh!_  from beside Fenris, revealing that she had also been eavesdropping - it was hard not to, for them. Fenris heard Anders exhale sharply, almost wearily, and tried hard not to snort at the mage's attempt to still sound friendly as he turned her down.

"I think I would prefer to get back to the clinic as soon as possible," he said politely, and before Hawke could say anything fell back to walk behind the elves. Hawke's face was similar to that of someone who had bitten into something particularly sour, and at that Fenris did snort.

"Well, you can't win them all," she muttered, falling in line with Fenris. He fought very hard not to roll his eyes.

Merrill had lagged back to talk to Anders, probably to console him after that embarrassing display, judging by the hand on his shoulder. Fenris was surprised to see Anders willing to let her touch him, but reminded himself that they were now partners in crime. He lowered his tone and hoped Merrill did not feel the need to listen in with her more sensitive ears.

"A suspected blood mage, and this is your way of investigating?" He did not know whether to be disgusted or amused. "You thought you would . . . what? Invite him to your chambers and hope he turned into an abomination?"

Hawke huffed, swatting at Fenris' bicep in protest. "Usually he flirts back," she said defensively. Then she sighed. "He is a little off. Very unenthusiastic, isn't he?"

"You could have just yelled out, 'look, templars!' to test that," Fenris said dryly. Hawke made a noise of embarrassment and shoved at his shoulder. The tiny rogue really did not have nearly enough strength to make him budge, but, deciding he had given her enough of a hard time, Fenris staggered just a little to make her feel better.

"I don't know, Fenris," she said, sobering up once more. At that, the elf could feel himself bristle. He did not like her tone.

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully, fearing the answer. She did not believe him, did she? There was irrefutable proof at this point, Fenris was sure of it, and yet she doubted him?

Hawke opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by two yelps in unison from the mages behind them.

An arrow whizzed right past Fenris' head, a shout from Hawke in warning being the only thing that prevented it from impacting. His broadsword was out in an instant, and he could already spot the bandits in the brush to their left. Their cover blown, they charged out from the foliage, and Fenris met two with his sword.

With a single fatal strike, one bandit was cleaved in half, blood splattering everywhere and dousing his blade, while the other gave a weak parry and was knocked to the dirt. Hawke finished him off with a stomp to the head as she passed Fenris, blades slashing so quickly they were a blur as she knocked a bandit towards the cliff.

A glance back revealed Merrill a fair distance from the fight, hurling spells, and Anders - where was Anders? Fenris scanned the area, and the distraction nearly got him a knife in the back. When he had dispatched the rogue, however, he spotted the abomination. 

Anders was  _far_ too close to their enemies, hurling fireballs at every foe that so much as glanced his way. It was effective, of course; the fire spread from bandit to bandit, and soon their screams halted and there was nothing left but husks of men.

Breathing hard, Anders replaced his staff on his back and straightened up. Fenris joined the others in approaching him. Hawke gave a little laugh, short and nervous as she sheathed her swords. Fenris and Merrill followed suit with their weapons as they all stood around and waited for someone to speak.

That someone was, of course, Hawke. "Not your usual style, is it, Anders?"

The man offered a vague shrug, looking uncomfortable - likely from all the eyes on him. "I got tired of just being the healer, I guess," he said, glancing away. 

Hawke exchanged a glance with Fenris, and he knew what she was thinking. He knew and it infuriated him. Anders had not used anything even remotely similar to blood magic during that fight. Fenris' skin prickled uncomfortably, like he was being watched. He knew what he had seen and heard, regardless of what Hawke thought, and he would prove it to her sooner or later.

He glanced up to snap at whoever was staring, but found nobody looking at him. The rest of the party were continuing along the coast without him. The prickling intensified, and there was a sudden urgency, a need to catch up. His legs carried him across the sand and rocks, and Hawke looked back, lips curled up in a smile as if to taunt him for lagging behind.

He was just in time. A glint of silver, a stinging pain. Fenris jerked Anders out of the way with a vice grip on his upper arm and took the hit to his shoulder. The last of the bandits died with shock still written all over her face as Fenris tore out her heart.

Merrill let out a little gasp of surprise, and Hawke released a low whistle. "Nice one, Fen," she praised him.

And that was that. The party continued, and Fenris downed a potion, preferring it over letting Anders get his magic anywhere near his body. He looked down at his bloodied gauntlet in disgust and started to wipe it on his leggings before freezing suddenly in the act. That was not the hand he had killed the bandit with. That one was much bloodier. This . . . 

Fenris turned to glance at Anders and, with a sort of grim feeling of satisfaction, found the forest green wool was stained crimson.

"Mage," he called out, and Anders gave him a weary look, Merrill also glancing back briefly in case Fenris was addressing her. "Were you injured?"

Anders' eyes narrowed and his jaw set. Automatically, his hand went to his upper arm where the blood was. There was a small, almost imperceptible wince, and then his expression faded into something more casual. 

"It's those damn claws of yours," the healer complained loudly. "Sliced me right open. Honestly, Fenris, you may as well just leave me to die next time."

Hawke let out a snort ahead of them, and Merrill covered her mouth against a chortle. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if i like this chapter, but it's long!

Hawke let out a long, exaggerated yawn, stretching her arms high above her head and letting them drop back to her sides with a dramatic sigh.

"Aveline owes me way more than one," she complained loudly as they walked down the steps of the Qunari compound. "'Just see what they want,' 'they like you,'  _u_ _gh!_ I should have made her deal with this!"

Fenris was inclined to agree. Covered in dirt, sticky with sweat, and stained with more than a little blood, he felt absolutely disgusting. The sun was setting on the docks, which allowed the air to cool, thankfully, but it was too late to curb his discomfort. He wished he could have stayed home all day, but Hawke always brought him along to earn brownie points from the Arishok. Fenris wanted to scoff at that. Just because he knew a few greetings in Qunlat, he got to suffer with her.

Of course, he held no real animosity towards her. He would follow Hawke through the Void and back. She had done more for him than he could ever repay her for.

"Poison," Hawke continued in her rant. "Their solution to preventing their explosives recipe being stolen was to replace it with  _poison!_ Absolutely genius, let everyone die of some horrible poison instead of, Andraste forbid, someone learning how to mix some  _fucking powder - "_

"We get it, Hawke," Isabela interrupted in a lazy drawl, throwing an arm over the woman's shoulders. "Qunari this, Qunari that, Aveline is going to get it. If I hear you complain about that blackpowder stuff one more time, I'm going to vomit."

"Easy for you to say!" Hawke shoved away from the embrace lightly, crossing her arms and pouting. "Always slipping away at the last second. You've never had to listen to the Arishok drone on and on, or try to convert you every other sentence!"

Isabela rolled her eyes playfully and clicked her tongue. It was her way of acting as though she was above the argument. It stemmed from avoidance issues, Fenris noted, but he never opted to comment on it. She would just avoid that discussion, like everything else.

"It's okay, Isabela," Merrill said sweetly, patting the pirate on the arm empathetically. "I'm scared of the Qunari, too. They're just so big, they could squash me with one hand!"

Isabela's cheeks flamed bright red, a feat considering her dark skin. Her hands went haughtily to her hips. "I am  _not_ afraid of some horny giants," she insisted, and even at their distance Fenris caught the way her voice faltered mid-joke. Sympathetic, nobody second-guessed her on the statement.

In the silence that followed, Fenris overheard Hawke very quietly fume, "How secret can a bomb recipe even be?"

The sky was a stunning orange when they made their way into the slowly emptying streets of Lowtown, Hawke leading them in a beeline to the Hanged Man. It was routine for her to buy a pint for anyone she had dragged along with her for the day, and Fenris was the last person to turn down alcohol, even if it was the shittiest of dwarven ales. Thankfully, Hawke had better taste than that.

The Hanged Man was comfortably familiar in all its filthy glory. Norah gave her regular patrons a friendly wave, and the party made their way to the bar, Fenris propping his broadsword against the side of it. Fenris glanced around, nearly every face familiar, whether friendly or unfriendly. Expectedly, he found Varric standing nearby, but surprisingly the storytelling dwarf had not yet joined them.

Instead, he was speaking with a very familiar mage.

" - keep them away for the night? I haven't gotten decent shut-eye in weeks, they're always rattling around and asking questions at the most ridiculous hours. I can pay you back, of course."

"No need, blondie," came that smooth voice, and he clapped Anders on the elbow, too short to reach his shoulder. "I'll tell the carta to keep your doorstep clear."

"Thanks, Varric," the mage replied gratefully. Anders looked dead exhausted, dark circles under his eyes more prominent than ever before and face pale. In an instant, Fenris remembered the blood on his hands and on the man's sleeve, the defensive way he had covered it, the deflection when interrogated. He had not seen Anders since then, which had been a week before now.

Hawke elbowed Fenris, her preferred method of getting his attention. "You drinking up or nah?" she asked, complaint in her tone as there always was when Fenris was not listening to her. She followed his gaze, spotting Anders, and frowned. "Ah," was all she said after that.

Fenris looked back at Anders at the same moment the mage turned his head, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments. The amiable smile immediately slipped off his face and he narrowed his eyes, quickly bidding Varric farewell and heading for the door of the pub. With a baffled expression, Varric watched him go, and then wandered over to the bar.

"Poor guy oughta stop in for a drink once in a while," he said, shaking his head and hopping onto one of the barstools. Like this, he was the same height as the others. "It'd do him a world of good."

"Hello to you too, Varric," Hawke greeted, falling back into her amused banter, as though nothing had happened. Fenris stared at the door as it swung shut behind Anders, eyebrows drawn together.

"Hello, Varric!" Merrill piped up from the other side of Hawke. Varric offered her a smile, something akin to fondness in it. If Fenris left now, he could follow after the abomination, and maybe find out his secret.

"Evening," he said, tapping the bar counter for a beer. Corff had it in front of him in seconds. "How were today's spoils, Hawke?"

Before Hawke could launch into her grand retelling about their grueling day once again, Fenris slid off his barstool and secured his broadsword onto his back. The action was met with two surprised looks and two knowing ones.

"I'm going to call it a night, actually," he heard himself saying, and it took every fibre of his being not to sprint out right then and there.

"What, already?" Isabela complained. "Skimping out on free beer? That's unlike you, Fenris."

"I feel disgusting," Fenris replied, and it was true. He was still covered in grime. It just was not his first priority. Merrill gave a little sniff, narrowing her eyes at Fenris in warning, which he opted to ignore. He did not care what the blood mage thought.

"Good night, then, I suppose," Hawke said airily, but the look she gave him was pointed. He had known Hawke long enough and well enough to decipher exactly what she was telling him.

_Figure this out._

He raised a hand in farewell as he moved towards the door. "Good night."

Fenris was itching to move faster, and the moment the door shut behind him he scanned the area. Anders was already gone, but Fenris knew he was likely returning to his home in Darktown, so he ventured down the nearby steps. His words echoed in Fenris' mind - keeping someone away from the clinic. Templars, obviously. Who else would Anders need protection from? And why else would he want them to gone but to ensure he could practice forbidden magic unhindered?

The street was rapidly darkening, with nary a soul on it besides the two or three beggars making their way back to the Undercity. Fenris bypassed them all. He did not hesitate once down the steps to Darktown, feet light and quick on the stone, then completely muffled when he hit dirt.

Once, lanterns had lit the paths of Darktown, but over the years they had dimmed, winked out completely, or been broken in scuffles or drunken rages. Fenris knew the route by memory, however, needing no guidance as he made a beeline to the clinic. It surprised him at first - the fact that he had yet to see Anders about - but of course, the mage had spells for speed, ones that Fenris himself had felt flowing through his body and enhancing his movement.

There were carta lurking around in the shadows around the clinic, Fenris knew, sharpening their blades and watching for threats. Fenris, however, was not a templar. They let him pass, which he was thankful for, as he did not want to bother with a tussle between himself and a bunch of angry dwarves.

The lantern in front of the clinic was off, signaling that it was closed, though Fenris knew that Anders rarely turned down people that came at off hours. Surprisingly, however, the inside of the clinic was almost entirely empty, with not a soul inside save for a heavily bandaged dwarven woman snoring on a cot.

Ignoring her, Fenris turned to the door that led to Anders' room. He could see a faint light filtering through the gap at the bottom. Listening closely, he heard nothing, but above the stench of Darktown, one thing was very clear.

The air reeked of blood.

He had known it would come to this since the moment he had seen Merrill gifting him that blade - no, since as far back as his first time meeting Anders. Not only a mage, not only an apostate, but an abomination. And what did abominations always become?  _Maleficarum._

Fenris' hands grew clammy, his heart racing. Memories of his slavery, of gashes all over his body, of the reek of blood and fear, watching helplessly as a beautiful young elf girl had her throat slit like a pig and was replaced with a being of fire -

With a gutteral snarl that was far from human, Fenris raised his foot and broke down the rotting wooden door with a single heavy kick.

"Fenris?"

Anders stood in front of a mirror, but all Fenris could see was his former master, turning and giving a wicked smirk, beckoning him closer. Lacerations traced their paths up and down the mage's arm. The stench of blood was overwhelming.

 _"Mage!"_ It came out as a mighty roar. Fenris did not bother drawing his sword; with these close quarters and a staffless mage, he could handle himself just fine without.

He did not know when his markings had flared a brilliant blue. He bowled Anders over in an instant onto the floor, the familiar tug of the Fade calling to him, but he ignored it for the moment. He wanted to make the filthy abomination suffer before he ended his miserable life. Instead, his clawed gauntlets closed around Anders' throat.

"Did you think you would not be noticed?!" Fenris hissed, leaning down until they were nose-to-nose. Anders' eyes were wide with fright, and the elf relished in the satisfaction that coursed through his veins. "Did you think you could get away with this?!"

A flash of anger in warm hazel eyes, and then a sharp pain as Anders reared back and headbutted Fenris in the forehead. He took advantage of the resulting shock to roll them over with surprising strength, gripping his wrists forcefully and pinning them.

"Are you barking mad?!" Anders moved to straddle Fenris when he started to thrash. He was  _not_ about to let himself be at the mercy of yet another bloodthirsty maleficar! "Stop struggling, you crazy son of a -  _agh!"_

Fenris succeeded in reversing the roles once again, and this time Anders' head smacked against the floor with a satisfying  _crack._ The mage lay still then, conscious but dazed, and Fenris sat back, panting. Hand glowing bright blue, he pressed his fingertips to Anders' chest, red clouding his vision. His other hand went to the man's throat.

"A blade from a blood mage," he ground out. "Reckless behavior in battle." His voice rose in volume. "Keeping the templars away from the clinic. Slicing your flesh open!" Anders' hands scratched at the one at his neck, a soft wheeze escaping his lips. "What is it, if not demon summoning?!"

"Then kill me already," Anders rasped.

That gave Fenris pause, a pause so long that Anders could have escaped, with enough effort. Perhaps it was the oncoming concussion stopping him. Was he not going to beg for his life? Insist he was innocent? Fenris narrowed his eyes, wrinkling his nose in distaste. A coward. He should not have expected any better.

"What the hell are you waiting for?"

Anders grabbed at the hand on his chest, but rather than try to push it away, to Fenris' astonishment, he pulled it in. The clawed tips of his gauntlet dug into the flesh of Anders' bare chest. Blood welled up on previously unmarked flesh, and, shocked, Fenris forgot his rage. Should he pull grant the mage's wish? Should he pull away?

"I'm maleficarum now," Anders gasped out, propping himself up on one elbow, and it was only then that Fenris realized his grip on the man's neck had weakened. A twisted grin settled on his face. "A blood mage. I'm going to summon demons using innocents. I'll keep slaves just for insane blood rituals!" He leaned up further, barely wincing when Fenris' gauntlets dug in a fraction deeper. "I'll be just like Danarius!"

 _Danarius._ The name of his former master had Fenris' blood boiling. Tattoos that he had not noticed growing dim suddenly flared to life, and he shoved Anders to the ground, growling in the man's face.

"As you wish," he snarled, and reached for Anders' heart.

And then there was a bright light, similar to his markings but originating from a different source, and pain erupted from the lyrium carved in his skin. Fenris was thrown backward, where he hit the wall and slumped, dazed. His markings were on fire, skin burning with an ironic familiarity that he had felt so many times under Danarius' magic. Head spinning and blinded from the light, he could not even muster a pained scream.

The light subsided, and there was a groan from where he had left Anders. The fire in his skin subsided somewhat and he blinked away the spots in his vision. He rose on shaky legs, leaning heavily on the wall, and fought to make out the form of the mage. When he did, it was to see Anders sitting up, clutching at his head.

"What . . . what did you do?"

Fenris' voice was not his own. It was the voice of a scared young slave, cowering before his magister, and he  _hated_ _it._

"Justice," Anders muttered, voice strained.

Fenris felt his stomach lurch. The last thing he needed was a demon getting involved. He had no doubt that was what the thing was now. Anders had always insisted it was a benevolent spirit, but Fenris had always known better. Spirits and demons were no different from one another - Danarius had taught him that much.

Fighting to regain his strength, Fenris took a shaky step forward. He pulled his broadsword from his back, and Anders finally looked up at him, glaring defiantly in his last moments, wordlessly challenging him. Fenris held the point of the blade to Anders' throat in response. If the demon would not allow him to get close, he would simply lop the apostate's head off in one swing.

Fenris opened his mouth to ask the man if he had any last words, but Anders interrupted him with a petulant, "Do you always take this long to slaughter blood mages?"

 _"Fasta vass,"_ Fenris growled. "As you wish, maleficar."

But before he could swing his sword, the blue light returned, a soft shimmer around Anders' body. Alarm bells rang in Fenris' head as the lyrium in his skin sang in response, but it was not painful this time, and the light did not spread beyond the mage. Anders' eyes were a vivid blue now, no iris or pupils visible. He pushed the blade away with surprising force and stood.

 _"I cannot allow you to kill Anders,"_ came the warbled low pitch Fenris knew as Justice, moving Anders' body around and using his mouth to speak, all in a way so different than Anders did himself.

Fenris was hardly equipped to fight a demon. In this position, he felt like a cornered wolf, both aware of its weakness and prepared to take on the world for freedom. He spat out another curse in Tevene. "I don't deal with demons," he said shortly. "Especially not ones fused with blood mages."

Justice shook Anders' head. The movement was unnatural in a way Fenris could not pinpoint.  _"He lies to you. He is no blood mage."_

The protest was almost hilarious, and Fenris snorted. "Right," he sneered. "That's why he's covered in lacerations."

Justice raised an arm. He inspected the deep cuts covering the otherwise smooth skin and, as he narrowed his eyes, Fenris felt the tug of the Fade. Skin knitted back together, leaving behind an unmarred expanse of flesh.

 _"He believes he deserves them,"_ Justice said, and he sounded almost sad. Fenris perished the thought. Demons cared nothing for their hosts.  _"He will not like that I have healed them. They are a worthy punishment for crimes he has not committed."_

"He has committed many crimes, demon, and you know it," Fenris retorted. Justice turned those unnatural eyes on him.

 _"He did not kill the girl in the Gallows,"_ he said simply.  _"And he is doing no wrong now. Do not kill him for something he has not done."_

And then the blue light vanished, and Anders was collapsing on the ground in a huddled heap. Fenris let his sword fall to his side as he watched the mage collect himself, putting a hand to his forehead and hissing slightly. 

"You should have killed me," he said, and this time it was not the manic voice he had heard before, but something weak, pathetic. Hazel orbs were dull when they met forest green, the sadistic grin replaced with a blank expression and tired eyes. "Just be done with it already, Fenris."

_He is no blood mage._

Fenris stared at him a long time, mulling over Justice's words, long enough that Anders slumped once more and stared at the ground. Finally, he sheathed his sword and crossed his arms. 

"Why?" he asked. His mouth felt dry, and he could not understand for what reason. Anders snapped his head up to look at him, eyes widening in bewilderment. 

"What do you mean,  _why?"_ he demanded incredulously. "The Fenris I know would never turn down an invitation to cleave me in half." The brief passion faded once more. "You hate me. What end is more fitting?"

Fenris wanted to shout at him, to scoff, to shake him, to storm away and never talk to him again. Why was he so impossible? Here Fenris was, trying to come to an understanding for once, while Anders fixated on death. Had he no shame?

It was an odd sense of pity that had Fenris sighing instead. Thoughts of suicide, he was no stranger to - he had pined for death often under Danarius, had wished for the embrace of death. But Anders was no slave; he was not under a whip, his friends were not being slaughtered before his eyes, he was not playing prey to filthy, hungry wolves that wore the guises of men. The worst he faced were a few men in armor telling him to control his magic. 

"Why do you want to die so badly?" Fenris clarified dryly. Anders shook his head. 

"What do you care?" he snapped.

Frustration coursed through Fenris at that. Forget pity! He would not try to comprehend his struggles if Anders was not going to meet him halfway. He should have known better. There was nothing good between them - he was a fool to try and attempt understanding.

"Then I am leaving," Fenris said curtly.

He turned his back and made his way slowly through the clinic, noting idly that the dwarf woman was somehow still asleep. As he did, he heard Anders push himself onto his feet, finally, and pad over to the corner where the knife had skidded off to. A soft  _chink_  of metal on stone signified him picking it up, and the hairs on the back of Fenris' neck stood on impulse.

"The girl at the Gallows."

It was so quiet that anyone without the sensitive ears Fenris had would not have heard it. He stopped mid-clinic and inclined his head, listening closely for more. Justice had mentioned her, as well.

"You did not kill her," Fenris said, only a little louder than Anders. The man gave a quiet, mirthless laugh.

"I almost did," he whispered. 

There was nothing else to say after that. True to his word, Fenris left. He left with a mind both rampant with activity and numbingly blank, his feet carrying him up the stairs to Lowtown and into the Hanged Man, and then up to Hightown when it was revealed that Hawke had turned in for the night. He left behind the broken mage he had conspired against, and returned to his fellow conspirator with an awkward feeling stirring in his gut.

"Serah Fenris! Allow me to fetch the messere for you - "

"Fenris?"

Hawke's voice snapped him out of his stupor. He had not even stepped inside the mansion. He met her icy blue gaze, questioning and expectant, and forced himself to speak.

"Anders is no threat," he said simply, and left before the embarrassment of his assessment and guilt of his accusations could catch up to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is potentially triggering, as fenris expresses some very ignorant views about suicidal ideation. he will grow to learn better, but for now, be warned.

Fenris could not get the thought out of his head.

The memory was . . . somewhat chilling. While he often threatened Anders, even fantasized about giving him a clobbering or two, his imagination generally included a lot less blood and even fewer scars. There was no mistake - whatever Anders' reason, something was very much wrong if he was mutilating himself that badly.

But what?

Fenris remembered well his years in slavery, his crippling lack of will to live, the constant, background desire to end it all. He had faced physical and emotional abuse alike, been a punching bag to Danarius and stress reliever alike, had watched those he served with tortured and slaughtered like livestock for no good purpose. Fenris was no stranger to existential dread.

Obviously he had not self-harmed; Danarius had done enough harm to him without help, and of course, had he left a single mark on his own precious body, the magister would doubtlessly have punished him. Even without those things, Fenris had found the idea of bringing a blade to his skin without intent of death to be pointless. How could he subside his suffering with even more suffering?

And yet Anders, a free man, had so easily done that to himself. Snarky, annoying Anders, who was always ready with a biting retort, who selflessly aided the people of Darktown, who loudly shoved his opinions down the throats of anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby.

It was truly baffling. Fenris had spent years in quite literal torture, whereas the worst thing Anders dealt with was watching his mouth around templars. Fenris had struggled through without doing any harm to himself, and yet Anders was being quite violent in his self-punishment. What did Anders even have to be miserable about?

Of course there were emotional aspects to such things - Fenris recalled clearly that demon mentioning self blame - but the pieces still added up little. Everyone felt guilt for their mistakes, but they bettered themselves and moved on. Anders had not even done any wrong, technically speaking - that girl was alive - and even if he had, there was no reason to wallow in self pity. Anders had a support system.

Fenris even took time to observe and validate that claim - from the shadows, of course, as Anders had refused to venture out anywhere Fenris would be after the incident. He found him reminiscing on old memories with Isabela, swapping wild tales with Varric, even getting into surprisingly non-hostile discussions about old magic with Merrill. Darktown was full of people who sang praise for the healer.

Anders was surrounded by people who cared for him. What possible excuse could there be to resort to such foolish extremes?

Many days passed before Hawke came knocking once more, finally requesting aid. Fenris feared she had been angry at him for his bold assumptions, and she even had her hands on her hips when he answered the door, but the confrontation was unexpected.

"I hope you don't plan on any stalking today," she said, tone accusatory. "I need your help." Fenris could not stand to look her in the eye.

"You knew about that?"

Hawke snorted. "I see everything, Fenris. And I'm not the only one. Isabela hasn't shut up about you making bedroom eyes at Anders, and don't think Varric won't pick up the idea too."

"There were no bedroom eyes," Fenris retorted defensively. "Isabela says that about everyone."

"Whatever, I don't want to know." Hawke paused. "Okay, maybe I do. But save it for later."

.

To Darktown they went, after collecting Aveline from the nearby Keep and Merrill on the way past Lowtown. Fenris had paid little attention to what they were there for. It did not end up mattering; not twenty feet from the stairwell they were ambushed by a small army of dwarves.

Not that he would ever admit it to Varric, but watching a band of tiny, angry men rush him was rather amusing - up until one stabbed him in the thigh, of course. He generally would pace himself in a fight, but he found himself caught off guard this time. Rogue after rogue came after their small party, each gap being replaced by another, and Fenris realized abruptly that something was different. Wrong.

To his left he found Hawke slicing furiously through the dwarves surrounding him, and she threw herself against his back so they could fight together.

"Feistier than normal, aren't they?" she shouted over the commotion. Fenris cleaved through another thug only to find two replacing them. "We need a better position!"

Getting the message, Fenris pushed forward, taking three Coterie out in one go. Pacing was not going to win this fight; they needed to strike quickly and harshly if they wanted to survive. 

Hawke took the gap in stride, vanishing before Fenris' very eyes. She materialized just behind the crowd and took a dwarf out with each dagger and, before the rest could swarm her, Fenris dived in for another kill. She took her place at Fenris' back once more, and this strategy continued a few more times with varying degrees of success until they had moved from the cramped hall to a much more defensible clearing.

Fenris was not sure how they had managed it, but Aveline and Merrill had kept up, but not without their own injuries. Hawke was sporting a bleeding gash on her stomach and the Coterie had pinned their strategy and they were stuck, yet Fenris had not missed where Hawke was directing them.

She elbowed him sharply in the ribs, yelling over the chaos, "Go!"

The jab was quite unnecessary, but Fenris went without complaint. The markings across his skin flared brilliant blue, and then his skin was fading into translucent white. A rogue came swinging, but passed straight through Fenris, and fell straight onto one of Hawke's blades. 

There was no time to waste. Fenris passed right through the crowd, hopefully disorienting them, and sprinted north and down a set of stairs. He had to act quick, or by the time he returned, there would be nobody to help.

He had to get Anders. 

His leg throbbed painfully as he ran, but thankfully they were not too far from his destination. Hopefully it would be enough. Another flight of stairs - going up was significantly more painful than going down - and he was at the clinic doors. Without pause, he slammed the door open.

The clinic was not bustling as it sometimes could be, but there were still a great many pairs of eyes staring him down as he stood in the splintered doorway, panting, including the cold, judging hazel that was Anders glaring at him from across the room.

"What." It was no question, but a demand, an order to state his purpose. Fenris fumbled for words.

"Coterie," he managed. His mind moved a mile a minute, but only seemed to produce coherent words sparingly. "Hawke needs help."

Anders wasted a few more of their precious seconds to shoot daggers from that blazing gaze before he sighed and leapt into action. "Of course she does," he muttered, turning away sharply toward a desk in the corner. From it he plucked a lyrium potion and downed it quickly, shoved a few red flasks onto his belt, then picked up his staff from where it lay propped against the stone wall nearby.

He approached Fenris in the doorway, and the elf expected him to stop or prompt him for directions, but Anders hurried straight past him and down the steps in front of the clinic. Dumbfounded for only a second, Fenris forced his tired legs to move once more and follow the mage. He supposed the fighting was audible.

He quickened his pace to keep up with Anders, but the man hardly acknowledged him. Tension crackled in the air like Bethany's favorite lightning spells. There was hardly time to dwell on it - he would have to do so later.

They happened upon the battle worse than Fenris left it. Merrill stood pale and shaking, barely upright as she leaned against her staff for support. Aveline had her shield up, placing herself between Merrill and the thugs as she slashed wildly at any that came too close, and Hawke was left to fend for herself a distance away, daggers a blur as she did her best to ward off adversaries on all sides.

"Aveline, back!"

It was all the warning Anders gave. She had seconds to act on it, throwing herself backward and crushing Merrill into the corner before Anders was throwing his arm in a wide arc. A wall of flames sprung up between them and the coterie, a barrier. Of course, that had the coterie turning their attention to Anders, but he was far from finished.

He raised his hand in Hawke's direction, palm radiating light, and a similar white, glowing sheen covered her skin. Fenris picked up what sounded like a breathless chuckle before Hawke was suddenly pushing her foes back, downing one, then another, and they backed off warily.

A sizeable number of coterie thugs were rushing Anders now, and Fenris readied his sword, prepared to protect this squishy mage if need be. It was unnecessary. With a wave of his hands they were enveloped in fire, hair and clothes alight, and a terrible smell had Fenris suppressing a cough as smoke filled the air from their still-burning corpses.

It was over.

Anders slumped then. Whether it was from relief or exhaustion, Fenris did not know. The mage waved a hand around in the air in front of him, grimacing. Hawke sheathed her daggers coughed only somewhat exaggeratedly.

"You never get used to that smell," she grumbled. "Everyone alive?"

"Barely," came Aveline's urgent voice from the corner. The three of them glanced at one another before rushing to the guard's side.

Aveline had a rather deep gash in her side, and was bleeding somewhere on her thigh. Anders pushed his way forward and held out his hands, glowing a soft blue, over her wounds, but she shook her head fussily and shoved him away. Instead, Aveline turned to Merrill, supporting the elf with an arm behind her back.

"Not me, her," Aveline snapped, and immediately Fenris could tell what had happened. Merrill's usually rosy cheeks were pallid, almost ghostly, and she was barely keeping her eyes open. No doubt the others knew as well, but Aveline explained anyway. "She's practically drained herself dry. If you don't do something fast . . . "

Another stressed sigh from Anders. It was nearly imperceptible, but Fenris saw the way he moved as if to push up the sleeves of his coat, and a second later seemed to think better of it. "Set her down gently. I'll see what I can do."

Aveline obeyed, and Fenris found himself roped into helping, lowering her to sit on the dirty floor with her upper half propped up against the sturdy wall that was Aveline. Hawke paced nervously behind them, staring anxiously back with every limp body she searched for some kind of valuable loot.

Anders went to Merrill's arms first, and with that same blue glow traced over each deep laceration. Her skin was a jarring sight even as Fenris watched her skin knit together seamlessly. It was so similar to how Anders' arms had looked that evening - how they probably looked right that second.

The thought was unsettling.

"Aveline, keep her awake," Anders ordered, effectively snapping him out of his reverie. Aveline nodded and patted firmly at Merrill's cheeks, muttering to her to keep her eyes opened. Those usually sparkling jade orbs were now so dull. "Fenris, uncork these bottles."

Fenris hesitated - not just to get close, but it had been so long since Anders had actually acknowledged him - but one foul look from the man had him hurrying. He grabbed the flasks of healing potion from Anders' belt and went to work opening them, despite his clawed gauntlets perhaps not being quite up to the task.

"How many?" he asked, unsure when he should stop. Anders did not look at him.

"Four of them. I should only need three, but you can never be too sure."

While Fenris finished up, Anders gave Merrill a rather harsher tap on the cheek and her eyelids fluttered, a bit wider than before. He reached blindly for a potion and Fenris obediently shoved an open one into his hand. Anders pressed the rim to Merrill's lips.

"Come on," he said briskly, tilting it back. "Drink up. You need to knock a few of these back."

A weak groan was all Merrill could afford in reply, but her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and Anders passed the job to Aveline as he started to work on her other arm. The tug of his magic at the lyrium in Fenris' skin was growing uncomfortable, so he stood and backed off, still shamelessly listening into the healer's grumbling.

"Andraste's ass, what were you thinking? Cuts these deep can kill, you absolute fool!"

Anders would know about that, wouldn't he? If not because of his knowledge as a spirit healer, then . . .

"Had to do something," Merrill replied softly, a quaver in her voice, though the fact she could speak was a good sign. Aveline shushed her by shoving another potion in her face.

"And what would all this be worth if you died, hm? Maker's breath."

Fenris wondered if Anders found irony in the situation, though that was hardly the only irony to be found. He forced himself to turn away from the scene to find Hawke poring over a crumpled piece of parchment. He came up behind her, eyes scanning the parchment, trying to pretend it did not aggravate him how unintelligible the scribbles were.

"Don't worry," Hawke said with a snort, as if reading his mind. "I can hardly read it myself. I guess criminals aren't big writers . . . or the people who hire them. Don't they know they can just talk to me directly? Take out the middlemen?"

There was mirth in her tone, but her frown was deep. Hawke glanced back to Merrill, who was sitting up on her own now, still pale but cheeks regaining a pink hue. She looked back down at the letter, eyes skimming it once more, and settling on what Fenris could only assume was a signature. A second later Hawke was tearing the paper to shreds, a scowl on her lips.

Fenris did not often see Hawke angry. Then again, her friends were not often on the verge of death. Hawke moved over to where the other three sat with just a few long strides, crouching on her toes to their level, and all Fenris really knew to do was follow.

"How's she doing?" the rogue asked briskly.

"Much better, actually! Thank you, Anders."

"Don't even talk to me, I am  _furious_ with you."

Merrill's voice was easing back into her usual chipper tone, Anders continued to fuss, the tension in Hawke's shoulder eased, Aveline breathed a sigh of relief, and Fenris . . . even Fenris would be lying if he claimed her loss would not have impacted him. Blood mage or not, she had fought in enough battles at his side for him to at least wish no ill upon her.

That was how their merry band of misfits operated, was it not? No matter how much disapproval they each expressed toward Merrill and her actions, no matter how much Aveline scolded them all, no matter how often Isabela cheated at Wicked Grace - no matter what topics they might butt heads on, at the end of the day, they would still play a round at the Hanged Man, and none of it mattered.

They did not have to understand each other, or even agree on the most crucial of matters. They still had one another's backs. Sure, it was mostly Hawke's doing, but it was true nonetheless.

"Here."

Lost in his reflection, Fenris took a second to process the potion that Anders was shoving at him. The fourth one he had opened. Fenris took it, squinting at Anders, who raised an eyebrow at him.

"You still have injuries, and I'm spent after that one," Anders supplied, jerking his thumb at Merrill. "So take it."

Fenris had no response. He wondered if Anders understood the unspoken thanks when he downed the potion and backed off. They did not have to understand one another, but Anders seemed to anyway, judging by his quick, satisfied nod.

"Hawke, no taking Merrill along anywhere for three or four days. Merrill, drink plenty of water, and don't go wandering Lowtown aimlessly until you're better." Anders stood, brushing the dirt from his robe. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to the clinic."

Perhaps Fenris could try a little harder to understand, himself.


End file.
